


don’t want to be anything other than me

by carbon_coconut



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android Hank Anderson, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Fade to Black, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Identity Issues, M/M, POV Connor, References to Depression, References to Suicide, interfacing, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 10:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbon_coconut/pseuds/carbon_coconut
Summary: Connor doesn’t know what else to say, where to even start explaining why he never brought it up sooner; why he didn’t say anything - not until Hank was lying prone on a dirty warehouse floor of a drug den after falling from a fourth floor walkway and wondering why he was still alive.How his partner’s face had paled when he looked at his arm and saw the exposed circuitry sparking in the low light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my HankCon Big Bang 2018 submission! This has been a joy to write (though a bit of a struggle at times) but I'm happy with how it turned out!
> 
> Follow the link here to view the artwork below by Marourin! I’m in love with it 😍

Art by [Marourin](https://twitter.com/Marourin/status/1091518073092198402)

 

**_Present day_ **

**_November 5 th 2039, 10:11PM_ **

The snow crunches loudly under his feet as Connor ascends the hill, condensation clouding in front of his face, his body working to regulate his temperature. The thermostat had dropped to 21.2°F about an hour ago when he set out from the hostel, wrapped in his winter gear. He has his rucksack tight against his back, a beanie pulled over his head with his LED tucked out of sight.

The locals here don’t really care that he’s not human. The android laws in Scotland had been pretty lax even before deviancy and Markus’ revolution, but he would prefer not to draw attention to himself while he’s here: at least until he has completed his mission.

The town lights flicker in the distance as a light snow starts to fall again. It’s been doing this on and off since Connor started walking but the footsteps he’s following are prominent in the powder. He’s not worried about losing his target, not this time.

He reaches the crest of the hill ten minutes later and immediately sees the figure standing at the top, staring out at the town in the distance. A cigarette dangles loosely from their fingers and Connor watches as they bring it to their lips to take a drag.

Here, Connor pauses. He half-expects the figure to start retreating but they remain stationary as Connor continues his approach, only stopping when he’s level with his target.

They stand quietly for a while; the only sound is the wind as it moves between the hills. The light at the end of cigarette flares as the man inhales through it again. “I’ve been watching you climb up,” he says, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “You took your time. Kinda like you were hesitatin’.”

Connor glances at him from the corner of his eye and looks out over at the town as well. “I was,” he admits. “I do not have any pre-constructed scenarios for this.” Connor scans him as inconspicuously as he can. “You are shivering, Lieutenant.”

Hank snorts, and takes another drag of the cigarette. “No shit, Sherlock. It’s fucking cold.”

“You should be more careful. If your temperature drops-”

Hank interrupts him. “You don’t need to tell me shit about what’ll happen,” he says bitterly.

“Apparently I do.”  Connor takes off his rucksack and unzips it, removing out a large fleecy jacket. He holds it out to Hank, and stares him out. “Please.”

Hank watches him for a minute. He sighs and, holding the cigarette between his lips, he takes the jacket. “Can’t believe that you’re gonna start the nagging already,” he mumbles.

“I can continue if, you’d like,” Connor says, ignoring Hank’s glare. “You shouldn’t be smoking. It isn’t good for you.”

“It isn’t good for anyone.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do. It don’t half warm the systems, though. ‘Sides, it’s not like it’s gonna kill me.”

Connor winces. “Lieutenant...”

“Thought we were past all the ‘Lieutenant’ shit.”

“...Lieutenant.” Connor swallows, nervous. The question that he’s wanted to ask for the last eight months is on the tip of his tongue and he is scared to ask it – though more arguably, he is scared to hear the answer. “Why did you leave Detroit?”

Hank’s wrapped up in the jacket now, and Connor relaxes only slightly in the knowledge that the man isn’t going to freeze anymore. He still has the cigarette though, and he takes another drag. He casts Connor a side-glance. “Wouldn’t you?”

Connor doesn’t have an answer for that. He can’t even begin to imagine the nightmare that Hank has been living through.

“I can’t tell if I’m still pissed at you, though,” Hank continues. “Keeping it from me for so long.”

“There was no easy way to tell you.”

He huffs out a laugh at that. “Now _that_ I can believe.” He drops the cigarette to the ground, stomping it out in the wet snow. “Can’t imagine CyberLife included ‘how to tell your friend he’s actually a one-of-a-kind advanced android prototype’ in your social programming.”

Connor crosses his arms, hunching his shoulders in on himself. “No. No, they didn’t.”

Silence descends over them again. Connor doesn’t know what else to say, where to even start explaining why he never brought it up sooner; why he didn’t say anything - not until Hank was lying prone on a dirty warehouse floor of a drug den after falling from a fourth floor walkway and wondering why he was still alive. How his partner’s face had paled when he looked at his arm and saw the exposed circuitry sparking in the low light.

Hank sighs, and turns away from the view that’s becoming more obscure as the snow falls harder. “Come on then,” he says. “There’s a bar in town that’ll still be open a few hours yet. I could do with a drink.” He starts back down the long and winding path without looking back.

Connor follows.

*~*

**_March 31 st 2039, 02:43AM_ **

The drive back from the android hospital is silent.

Connor isn’t one for human idioms, but he’s beginning to understand the one about cutting the silence with a knife. He clutches the steering wheel tight and if he were human his hands would be turning white. Like Hank’s would.

But Hank isn’t human.

And now he knows.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Hank cuts him off with a sharp, “Don’t.” It sends a chill through his circuitry and settles uneasily around his pump. He doesn’t attempt to say anything for the rest of the ride home.

Hank’s already out of the car before it’s stopped moving and Connor quickly turns of the engine before hurrying in after him, worried that Hank is going to do something impulsive. He thinks of the gun hidden away at the back of the closet.

Instead, Hank has gone straight to the kitchen and is slamming one of the cupboard doors shut. When he turns around Connor sees the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand and Hank doesn’t even bother to get a glass: he just starts drinking it straight from the bottle.

Connor winces when he doesn’t stop drinking and just continues taking swallow after swallow. He takes a hesitant step forward, breaks the silence with a plea: “Hank, don’t.”

Hank turns to slam the half-empty bottle on the kitchen counter. He braces his hands on the counter edges, shoulders hunched. “Why the fuck not,” he growls. “Not like it’s gonna kill me.”

Connor risks another step in to the kitchen. He can see Sumo running around in the back garden: Hank must have let him out before Connor came in.

“It’s still not good for you,” Connor explains. He doesn’t miss the way Hank tenses.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

He doesn’t know how to reply. It’s like Hank is probing him, testing him, daring him to say the thing that Hank doesn’t want to hear.

Connor licks his lips. His LED pulses red. “You were... designed to perfectly emulate human responses to stimuli. You will still become drunk, but it has no health implications to your systems.”

“...Designed, huh?”

Connor can tell it was the wrong thing to say mere milliseconds before Hank launches the bottle at the opposite wall. Whisky splatters across the wallpaper as the glass shatters in to hundreds of pieces, skittering across the kitchen floor. It’ll need to be cleaned up before Sumo comes inside.

Hank rounds on Connor. There’s rage in his eyes (so human, so blue) and Hank takes a few steps forward in to Connor’s space.

“How long have you known?” Hank demands.

Connor’s LED is spinning red constantly now, he can see it in the window’s reflection, knows his stress levels are creeping up.

“Hank,” he says softly, “I – it wasn’t...”

“Don’t lie to me, Connor,” Hank replies just as quietly but it’s an angry quiet, the kind that sets Connor on edge and has him conflicted over whether to run or fight. “Don’t lie to me. Not now.” Hank is watching him carefully. His eyes grow tight at the corners when he looks up at Connor’s LED. “How. Long?”

“...Since the beginning.”

There’s a beat of silence when nothing changes, and then Hank’s eyes grow sad. Betrayed. Connor thinks he can hear his heart breaking.

It makes his own break in kind.

Hank exhales shakily. His eyes are bright with tears (water-based, salt, mucin, lacritin, _human_ ) and he blinks rapidly in a failed attempt to clear them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hank asks and the hurt in his voice makes Connor want to cower in the corner. “I thought we were-” He cuts himself off, rubs a hand across his eyes.

Hank doesn’t need to say the words because Connor already knows. They’ve been heading towards something different, these last few months. They’ve had their fair share stolen looks, laughing quietly to each other with their heads bent close together; of evenings spent lounging against the other in front of the TV. It was a new layer to their already perfect partnership.

And now, Connor realizes, he may have ruined it all.

“We were,” Connor says. He adds, hopeful, “We still are.”

But Hank shakes his head, and he starts backing away. “Jesus, everything I’ve known about my life is a lie. How can I even trust you?” The anger was returning, barrelling over the sadness. “For fuck’s sake, Connor – _why didn’t you tell me_?!”

Connor is frozen. He can’t think through his systems glitching as he almost reaches his stress threshold. An alert appears in the top right corner of his HUD, warning him that he will enter emergency standby in three minutes if he doesn’t calm down but he distracted by the mission parameters that won’t stop coming.

**S** **T** **A** **T** **̵̤̅** **u** **̵̯̎** **S** **̵̯͝** **̶̻̅** **U** **̶̻̔** **p** **̶̯͛** **d** **̶͚̂** **A** **̷̙̄** **t** **̴͎͊** **e** **̷͇̇** **̴͉̈́** **:** **̵̲̈** **:** **̴̹͆** **:** **̵͠ͅ** **:** **̷̟͝**

̴̢̾ ̵̹ **_T_** ** _̶̠̋_** ** _e_** ** _̶̬͊_** ** _L_** ** _̴̮̎_** ** _L_** ** _̵̭͋_** **_H_** ** _̷̙̈́_** ** _a_** ** _̶̱͘_** ** _N_** ** _̷̖̿_** ** _K_** ** _̴͖͂_**

**_t_** ** _̷̮̔_** ** _H_** ** _̴͉͆_** ** _e_** ** _̷̟͂_** **_̷_** ** _̉_** ** _͕_** ** _t_** ** _r_** ** _̴͔̽_** ** _u_** ** _̶͕̆_** ** _t_** ** _̶̺͠_** ** _H_** ** _̵̖͝_**

̶̻̍ ̷͉̔ ̵̺̉ ̸̡͝ ̴͙̾ ̶͓̉Ê̵̬r̴̡̓Ŕ̷̩o̷̬̐Ŗ̴̕ ̵̳͌

̴̺̎s̸̝̿o̸͍͊F̷̮̐T̸̯̾w̶̧̕A̸̱͌!̷̪̎E̸̥͊ ̷̝͒Ǐ̵͎n̴̟͒s̵̰͊t̷̡͂ä̴̠́B̵̡̅I̵̜̕L̷̰͠Î̵ͅt̷̲͝Y̷̝̊^̷̯̒^̸͔̾^̵͎̾^̶̜͊

̷̰͠    ̷̝͠ ̵͎̕ ̸̜̄ ̶̳̊ ̶̛͕ ̴̟̋ ̸̗̊ ̵͇͠ ̸̟̏ ̷̤̚Ḋ̶̥E̷̙͋T̷̗̔E̵̙͒Ċ̷͔Ṭ̷́E̴͓̊Ḑ̷͝

̴̬͗ ̶͓̂ ̸̲̊ ̷̣̊      ̸͚̿S̵̜̋T̶͕̍ ̸̻͝:̸͉̔:̶̝̈:̴̛͉:̵͕̑ ̶̼̑Ē̴͜R̴̮Ȓ̵͕O̸̢͊R̴͇͠-̴̺̈́-̴̲̒

̵͈͐     ̷̴̵̵̶̸̵̸̴̶̴̵̶̷̷̵̴̶̴̷̴̸͓̗̝̰̥̖͍͓̗͕͚̟̫̹̠̮͈̖̭͔͒́́̽̆̐̃͛̋͗̔̀̌̍̍͐̃̑́͜͝͝͝ͅR̵̖̿E̸̢̚C̶̡͒A̶̝͐L̶̲̽I̶͍͑b̷̛̼r̸̯̋ą̴̏t̵̰̀e

̶͇̉Ŝ̴͖T̴͚̓À̶̢T̴̻̍u̵̦͌S̷̨̿ ̶͖̓Ų̷͌p̶̳̅d̸̳A̸̬͝:̵̛͔:̷͉̇:̷͇̂:̴̰́ ̷̬͌E̸̙̎Ŕ̷̦Ŗ̸̾O̸͎͂R̸̖͒

̶̯̂   Ṙ̶͉E̵̢͊C̶̨̚A̵͈̒L̸̨̆I̸̻̐b̶̤r̷͍͊a̶̞t̸͎́ĭ̶̦Ņ̵̽g̴͘͜ ̸̟͂.̷̣͗.̸̘͌.̶̻͠.̵̺̚.̴͕̾.̵̬͑

̷͉̒   **C̴̼͗a̴͚̍ȑ̷̤e̴̞̓** ̶͍̐F̸͓͊o̵̟̅R̶̹͋ ̶̢́H̶̪͛a̶̾ͅN̵̛͜K̵̳̇ ̴̨̛/̴̪̄ ̸͚̎     **p̶̙̓r̶̡̀ó̷̖T̶̻̕ȇ̸̠Ć̷̘T̷͇͗** ̸͔̐H̶͔͆a̷̹̕N̵̹̂K̷̜

̶̫͋ ̷̨̓ ̶̭̍ ̵̦̐ ̶̊ͅș̶̿ơ̴͍Ḟ̷ͅT̷͎̕ẇ̴͇A̵̬͂!̶̲̂Ȅ̴̲ ̷̢͋I̸͉͐ṉ̸̅ŝ̶͓t̷͓͐a̴̘͒B̵̗̈I̷͓L̶̜͘Ï̵͙t̸̲̓Ẏ̸̯^̵̳̑^̶̤͆^̶͖̇^̵̻̍

**L̶͓͊O̵̤͑V̷͆ͅȄ̴͔H̵̝̓ā̵̡N̵̻̓K̸̩̆**

“I-” Connor starts to say, but then Hank is pushing past him and heading to the front door.

“You know what? I can’t even look at you right now.” Hank grabs his keys from where he must have thrown them earlier. “Don’t follow me. I need some time to fucking think.” He slams the door shut on his way out.

It’s the last time Connor sees him for a while.

*~*

**_Present Day_ **

**_November 5 th 2039, 10:58PM_ **

The bar that Hank takes them to reminds Connor of those old Christmas movies that Hank made him watch. There’s an open-flame fire crackling in one corner of the room, a few tables scattered around the hearth. The furniture is primarily wooden and the lighting still relies on the old fluorescent bulbs that went out of fashion in the 2020s but are continued to be used in Scotland. He’s noticed that despite the technological advances in the last couple of decades the UK has remained surprisingly reserved in their own changes. Its power grid was updated fifteen years ago to be self-sufficient and they have autonomous transport, though they have been more moderate in their acquisition of androids.

There used to be CyberLife stores in the major cities though the number of androids purchased was significantly lower than in the USA. There aren’t many androids around now, not that Connor can see anyway. They might be blending in, LED’s removed: trying to live their life as inconspicuously as they can.

Connor tugs the beanie a little further down his head. He follows Hank up to the bar. A few of the patrons apparently recognise Hank, their hands raised in greeting. Hank waves back, to Connor’s surprise.

“Just the usual, Ewan,” Hank tells the barkeep.

Ewan (Pike, Ewan: 42 years old, 6’2”, no criminal record) drapes the dishcloth that he’d been using to dry some pint glasses over his shoulder. He grabs two whisky glasses from below the counter and retrieves a bottle of Glenfidditch. “You have company tonight, old man?” he asks, nodding at Connor.

“More like company found me.” Hank puts a twenty-pound note on the counter and slides it across. “Figured it’d happen sooner or later.”

“Friend of yours from the States?”

Hank’s reply is quiet. “Something like that.”

Ewan doesn’t ask any more questions, simply puts the two doubles in front of Hank and takes the money, thanks Hank when he’s told to keep the change.

Hank downs one of the glasses almost as soon as they sit down. He’s picked one of the booths, tucked away in the corner of the room. It’s far enough away to give them some privacy but still close enough to see what’s happening in the rest of the bar. There are circular stains on the table where condensation from the glasses have removed the varnish, the occasional burn from a cigarette. Connor studies them intently, reconstructs the actions that led to their creation while a silence settles over them.

Hank practically slams the first glass down and immediately picks up the second but he chooses to sip at this one sedately, watching Connor over the rim of the glass. Waiting.

Connor clears his throat and looks away. “How long have you been here?” he asks. Hank raises an eyebrow, but don’t answer. He continues, “The local residents recognise you, which would suggest you have remained here for some time,” he continues, “but I only picked up your trail here a week ago.”

“So? Maybe I never meant for you to find me. Maybe I just slipped up, left too much evidence behind.”

Connor gives him a look. “You have evaded me for the past eight months.  I highly doubt that you would suddenly make a mistake now.”

Hank doesn’t answer that. He takes another sip of whiskey.

Someone changes the music that’s been playing from an outdated jukebox in the corner. It turns to something softer and more suiting of the mellow atmosphere of the bar.

Connor feels an itch under his skin. He wants to ask so many things and at the same time ask nothing at all. He wants to leave.

He wants to stay.

“Why did you leave Detroit?” he ends up asking, again.

“Why the hell do you think?” Hank says, his tone almost scathing. “Everything I’d known was turned upside-down. My life has been nothing but lies, and you’ve known the entire fucking time and never said a word. Not one _goddamn word_ , Connor.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Connor argues back, against his better judgement. A few of the patrons glance over at them curiously. He continues, quieter, “You were – you _are_ alive, Lieutenant, and I didn’t want to ruin that.”

“Fuck that. What could have had you so scared that you were too chickenshit to tell me I wasn’t even human?”

Connor vividly recalls the numerous reasons that he didn’t tell Hank. The memory that sticks out the most goes right back to the beginning when he found Hank unconscious on the floor, a loaded gun next to his head, already steeped in depression. _‘Do not disclose android status to Lt. Anderson,’_ his mission parameters had said every time he scanned Hank. He had considered telling Hank after the revolution, free from CyberLife’s programming. He would pre-construct different scenarios and outcomes but they were all inconclusive. Hank’s mental state was too unstable to handle such a confession. So, Connor had let it be; changed his primary mission to _“Protect Hank at all costs.”_

“...I was scared,” he confesses, looking directly at Hank, “that you would do something irreversible.” Hank is quiet. Connor doesn’t think he’s known the man to say so little. “I know I should have told you and I thought about it every day. But I couldn’t predict how you would react and that...” He blinks rapidly a few times. “It terrified me, not knowing if you would stay. If you would even want to.”

He and Hank watch each other for a moment. Connor feels like he can’t breathe. In the end Hank breaks the silence first. “I had a right to know,” he says, so quietly that Connor wouldn’t have heard it if he were human.

“I know.”

Hank sighs and knocks back the rest of the whiskey. “I should be fucking livid,” he says, “but I’m barely even mad at you. Not much, anyways.”

Connor offers him a cautious smile. “I’m glad.”

“You’ve still got some fucking explaining to do,” he continues, a finger pointed at Connor. “I wasn’t able to get all the information I needed, but I bet you’ve got it all stored up in that brain of yours, huh?”

He nods. There is nothing to be gained from lying to Hank, not anymore. “I’ll answer all of your questions,” Connor promises. “No more secrets.”

Hank leans back. He taps his finger against the table top, thinking. Connor wonders at the processes that are running in Hank’s mind.

“Well,” Hank says, “it’s a start.”

*~*

**_April 02 nd 2039, 07:44AM_ **

Hank hasn’t returned home.

Connor has barely moved except to clear the broken glass and whiskey from the floors and tend to Sumo. He apologises for only letting him in to the backyard instead of taking him for their usual walks around the park, but he needs to be there when Hank comes back. He doesn’t know whether to try calling Hank’s cell phone, if that would maybe just anger him even more. He has to do _something_ but he doesn’t know what.

He is helpless. _He doesn’t know what to do_.

Sumo whines and pushes his big head against Connor’s knee, leaning his massive body against the couch. Connor tries to soothe him with a few scratches behind the ears, and mumbles soft nothings to the dog. He could call Fowler, but both he and Hank have been signed off on leave for at least a week to give the illusion that Hank is recovering from his accident and Connor is helping him, so it’s unlikely that Hank would have called in to say if he was taking off.

So, Connor continues to wait.

He stays awake at night instead of entering standby in case he misses Hank’s return. It leaves him feeling drained and sluggish, and his processors are running at 83.7% capacity so he uses the portable charging station to give him a boost instead.

The days continue to pass until it’s the evening before they’re due back at work.

Hank still hasn’t come home.

Sumo stays by Connor’s side the entire time. He probably senses the distress, and Connor can tell the dog misses Hank too. Sumo’s spent a lot of the time looking hopefully at the front door, his ears perking up whenever a car slows down by the house, only to drop his head back to the floor with sigh when it keeps moving past.

The sun rises the next day, and Connor has to go to work.

He gets to the precinct at 9am and starts his computer, eyes flickering over to Hank’s side of the desk to see that his partner’s chair is empty. There isn’t an awful lot to do at the moment. Their colleagues ask how Hank is recovering and Connor answers as honestly as he can: it’s clearly not his place to tell such a secret, so he just says that Hank is getting better and carefully doesn’t mention that Hank should have been back at work with him today.

It’s a slow day – the calls that come in are mainly disturbances so the beat cops go out to investigate, leaving Connor without much to occupy his time. He and Hank have already closed the major cases that crossed their desk the week before with the exception of the warehouse raid last week and although Connor has already submitted his report, he loads it up and checks on its progress anyway. The drug dealers they had been chasing have already been tried at court and placed in a prison just outside of Detroit. There had been over 200 kilograms of red ice detained and set to be destroyed, and a few kilos of other hard drugs mixed in amongst them. In the end Connor spends the majority of the day assisting Chris in a checking CCTV footage for a human who has robbed a repurposed CyberLife store. It’s tedious work, but at least he’s doing _something._

Connor keeps an eye on Fowler’s office all day and waits until he can see that the Captain is not currently indisposed before heading in. He would have preferred to go in as soon as his shift started but Fowler has been constantly engaged so far today, either talking with officials on the phone or speaking with individual officers in the station about their ongoing cases and investigations. When Connor finally sees that the office is empty he excuses himself from Chris’ desk and makes his way over to the glass doors.

Fowler is still sat at his desk, starting at something on his monitor. He hasn’t noticed Connor’s presence.  “Captain, may I speak with you?”

Fowler glances up and nods, gestures him in to step fully inside the office. “Figured you’d drop by eventually,” he says as Connor takes a seat, waiting until he has settled. “I reckon you have a few questions about Hank.”

“Yes,” Connor agrees. He leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped together in front of his body. “I was hoping that you might have the information that I am missing.”

“I’ll do what I can to answer. Some information is classified, even to me.”

Connor nods. He’d expected as much. “I was able to trace the Lieutenant’s life right back to when he was born. He has clearly lived a human life for the most part, but I have placed his ... activation at approximately seven years ago: is this correct?”

“It’s close enough,” Fowler says, sighing. “I don’t know the exact date, but it was around December 2031.”

“What happened?”

“What usually does: a case went south, and Hank was right in the middle of it.” Fowler grabs a data pad and unlocks it, flicking through the files there. “He’d told me that he suspected a mole in the force. A criminal he’d been tasked to take down was evading them at each raid they conducted, like he was being tipped off, but Hank couldn’t figure out who it was.

“He got sneaky about it, started giving different details to everyone on the task force, trying to work out who was leaking information. He brought a few suspects to my attention and I headed the interrogations myself but none of them were dirty. Then Hank ended up uncovering the mole himself when he and his partner went to raid the latest place they had tracked the criminal to.”

Fowler hands the data pad over to Connor. He takes it and studies the report. “Detective Carolyn Green,” he says, reading through the text. “She was Hank’s previous partner?”

“She was his only partner, up until you,” Fowler amends.

Connor keeps reading, his eyes widening. “She was the mole,” he breathes out. The rest of the report details are grim. Hank had connected the dots, realised that his partner had been the only one that he told his plans to, and instead of calling for back-up he’d tried to subdue her. Hank was by no means weak, but she’d been faster. “Severe lacerations to the spine,” Connor reads. His voice sounds detached to his own ears, as if its someone else reading the report. “He was instantly paralyzed. Four stab wounds: shoulder, liver and two to the stomach.” He blinks, looking up. “He should have died.”

Fowler nods gravely. “We didn’t know to look for him until he missed his hourly check-in, so we tracked his cell phone signal to his location. A response team was sent in and they called the EMTs.”

Connor reads on: Hank had been deprived of oxygen for too long. He was stabilized (barely) at the hospital but remained in a coma, with no traces of brain activity. He hands the data pad back to Fowler. “How did he...” Connor trails off, struggling to find the right words but there’s no delicate way to say it. He swallows, anxious to know but at the same time not sure if he really wants to hear. “How did he consent to CyberLife using him for human experimentation?”

“Funny thing about us humans is our ability to forget all of the shit we signed up for in life,” Fowler explains, leaning back in his chair. He’s smiling wryly, but Connor fails to see the humour in the situation. “A lot of us volunteered to be on the organ donor list when we were younger then forgot about it later. The doctors declared Hank brain-dead, nothing more than a breathing vegetable and CyberLife claimed him in the name of science, or some shit like that.” Fowler pauses, and Connor thinks he looks unbearably sad in that moment. “We had no idea what was happening,” he says. “We were told by the hospital that Hank was being maintained for the time being, but I knew something was wrong. They wouldn’t let Hank’s wife and kid in to see him, just kept saying that it wasn’t the right time for visitors. But we were under strict orders to pretend that Hank was fine, just in an induced coma and due to be woken up when he was healed.

“Six days later, I get a call from CyberLife’s head scientist asking me to come see him. I go and he tells me that they’ve ‘altered’ Hank – upgraded him,” Fowler says the words with a sneer. “’It’s a medical marvel,’ they’re saying: ‘a great feat for science and the future of human medicine’. But all I’m hearing is they’ve turned my oldest friend in to one of those androids.” He clenches his fist. “I was furious.”

“Why did CyberLife hide this from Hank?” Connor asks.

The Captain sighs. “What they did was unethical and illegal, Connor, organ donor or not. They as good as made a man immortal, and when the government found out they were pissed. But they couldn’t just switch him off, could they? He was alive now, it’d be murder.”

“So they integrated him back in to society,” Connor says, “and elected not to tell him that he was different. But what I don’t understand is _how_ CyberLife managed to create such an advanced prototype without revealing their intentions to the state.”

“Beats me how they did it, but like I told Hank – he’d need to ask them what they did exactly,” Fowler says.

Connor blinks. He replays the last 4 seconds of conversation on his HUD. “You told Hank this?” he asks. “When?”

Fowler frowns. “When he dropped by this morning before you arrived.”

“You saw him?”

Fowler nods. “Yeah, I did. He said he needed to take a bit more time off, get his head straightened out, that he’d come back when he could. I told him to take as much time as he needed – hey, where are you going?!”

Connor ignores him and runs out of the office, jumping over the railing and he bolts across the bullpen, vaulting the barrier at the entrance. He doesn’t bother with a taxi – that would take too long. He runs the entire way home.

_Hank will be there_ , he tells himself as he dodges pedestrians, preconstructing the fastest routes.. _Hank will be waiting at home_.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to reach the bungalow and his thirium pump beats in double time when he sees that the car is missing from the driveway. Connor hurriedly unlocks the door and skids to a halt in the living room.

It’s quiet. Unsettling quiet. A quick scan shows that Sumo’s food and water bowls are gone, as is his leash from the coat hooks by the front door. Connor heads in to the bedroom and starts opening the drawers, and checks in the closet. There are several shirts and pants missing, along with the sports bag that has been sitting unused on the closet floor since Connor moved in.

Connor steps back and collapses on to the mattress when his knees bump against it. He lowers his head in to his shaking hands.

Hank is gone.

_Hank is gone_.

*~*

**_Present Day_ **

**_November 6 th 2039, 00:23AM._ **

They end up leaving the bar just after midnight.  The snow has eased slightly, now just a light flurry drifting on the wind. It glitters in the moonlight and a certain quiet has settle over the town, the kind of quiet only achievable when the world is encased in snow.

Connor follows just behind Hank’s shoulder as they make their way through a winding path in a sparse forest. There are small, wooden cabins situated at various points along the way, and after about ten minutes Hank leads them off the path and approaches one of the cabins. “Home sweet home,” he mumbles as he unlocks the door.

Connor steps inside after him and looks around while Hank closes up behind him. The cabin is mainly one large room; there’s a couch off to one side along with a TV, and a queen sized bed pushed up against the opposite wall. A kitchen takes up the space just inside of the entrance and at the back of the room Connor can see a door, presumably leading to the bathroom.

All of this information is disregarded, however, when Connor spots the mass of brown and white fur lounging on the couch.

“Sumo!” Connor calls out before he can stop himself, ridiculously happy. The big dog lifts his head and blinks sleepily a few times, then he’s launching off the couch with a loud _woof!_ and crashes in to Connor so hard that he sends the android sprawling on to the floor. “Hey there buddy,” Connor practically coos at the dog, ruffling his hands through his thick fur. Sumo licks at Connor’s cheeks, whining, his tail wagging frantically. “Hey there, you good boy. How have you been? I’ve missed you so much.”

Sumo groans and butts his head against Connor’s chest.

“Dog has damn near been pining for you every day since we left,” Hank says, smirking at the pair of them on the floor. “Really made me second-guess the decision to take him with me.”

Connor drops a kiss on to Sumo’s brow, taking in the scent and feel of his four-legged friend. “He missed you too, that week that you were gone,” he says. “He would have acted the same had you left him behind.”

Hank doesn’t reply. He’s taking off his coat, hanging it up by the door and then starts on removing his boots. “Make yourself at home,” he says, “or as much as you can in here anyway.”

Connor stands up, Sumo sticking close to his side. “It seems cozy,” he says.

“Yeah, it is. Not a five-star motel but it’s sufficed.”

“You’ve been here for a while then?” Connor asks as he moves about the room, analyzing everything in passing. “Longer than the one week that I’d expected anyway.”

Hank hums, thinking. “Been here about two months, give or take a week.”

“Two months?” Connor blinks, surprised.

“Yeah.”

“I was following your trail through Arkansas just last month, though. How did you...” Connor’s LED stutters, processing. “Did you pay people to plant evidence that you’d been there?”

“A good Lieutenant doesn’t reveal his secrets,” Hank says. He leaves it at that, much to Connor’s chagrin. Hank moves comfortably about the room, putting the kettle on and refilling Sumo’s water bowl. He turns the radio on (an old analogue one – Connor hasn’t actually seen one in real life) and sighs happily. He looks over at Connor then, still standing in the middle of the room wrapped up in his winter gear. “What part of ‘make yourself at home’ didn’t compute with you?”

“Sorry, I - ” Connor pauses, unsure. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Hank’s anger to come back in to existence. “I’m ... confused.”

Hank snorts. “There’s a first,” he mumbles. “At least take that ridiculous hat off.”

Connor complies, tucking the hat in to his pocket and removes his jacket as well, hanging it up next to Hank’s. His rucksack is placed neatly on the floor, and he takes off his boots and sets them next to it.

Hank’s eyes flicker up to Connor’s LED and he loses some of the tightness about his eyes. “Go on then, what’s got you rattled?” he asks while pouring himself a cup of tea.

“...Why aren’t you angry at me?” Connor asks. He looks down at his socked feet on the linoleum floor. “You should be furious. I wouldn’t have blamed you and honestly, I had been expecting it.”

“Like I said, I had a lot of time to think.”

“Past evidence suggests that should have had the opposite effect,” Connor counters. “You spent months running from me, Hank. You didn’t want me to find you, but you always left enough clues for me to follow after you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it was just a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe that. You knew what you were doing, Hank- you wanted to keep me following after you.”

“Connor.” Hank’s voice has gone hard. Warning. “I ain’t doing this with you right now.”

Connor’s fist clench at his sides. “Well I _am_. You owe me an explanation, Hank!”

“I don’t owe you jack shit, Connor,” Hank bites. He spins to face Connor, a couple feet of space separating them, and Connor can see how the anger makes his face flush red. “Just leave it the fuck alone.”

But Connor can’t. He needs Hank’s anger; he deserves his anger for keeping this information from him for so long. He steps forward, closing the space between them until they’re toe-to-toe. “I want to know why you left,” Connor stresses. 

“What do you want me to do?” Hank finally snaps, and Connor feels a grim sort of victory at the change in tone. “You want me to get angry at you? Tell you that I’m pissed that you’d lied to me for so long? That Fowler lied to me?”

“It would be better than this alleged calm that you seem to have put on,” Connor says, LED pulsing yellow.

“You don’t know me from jack, Connor. Fuck, I barely even know myself.”

“I know enough to know that this isn’t like you.”

“Jesus, Connor, what the hell has gotten in to you?” Hank turns away and goes to rinse his mug in the sink.

Connor’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. All he knows is that he needs Hank to be mad at him. “I guess I’m just waiting for you to start being _you_. Not- whatever this is that you’ve picked up in the last 8 months.”

“Damnit Connor!” Hank slams his cup down on the counter hard enough to shatter it. Connor winces at the noise, and Sumo whines from the couch. “Why are you trying to get me to act like a human?”

“Because you are human!”

The silence that follows almost rings in his ears. Hank is panting and, Connor realizes, so is he. They stare at each other from across the kitchen, tension rippling between them. Connor licks his lips, quietly says, “You’re human to me. You always have been.”

Hank looks stricken. He stares at him a moment longer before rubbing a hand over his face. He says heavily, “I can’t... I can’t do this- whatever _this_ is- right now. I’m going to bed.”

Connor blinks in surprise when Hank walks past him. “Hank-”

Hank stops walking, but he keeps his back turned on Connor. Hank’s shoulders slouch as he sighs. “Not now, Connor.” Hank goes to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

Connor collapses on to the couch. His hands are shaking, his LED skipping between yellow and red. Sumo whines and rearranges his position so that he can rest his head on Connor’s knee, looking up at him with sad brown eyes.

Connor tries to smile at him but he can’t muster up the strength. He settles for placing a hand on Sumo’s big head. “I keep messing up,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I just keep making it worse.”

Sumo grumbles and leans in to Connor’s hand when he starts scratching behind his ears. He can hear Hank moving around in the bathroom as he gets ready for bed, and when he emerges he doesn’t even look in Connor’s direction, just turns the light off and gets in to bed.

Connor sits in the darkness, and thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

**_April 25 th 2039, 14:03 AM_ **

Hank has been missing for twenty-six days.

Connor alerts the Missing Person’s unit the day after his conversation with Fowler. They take his statement, note the last time Hank had been seen and tell Connor they’ll keep an eye out but from what Connor told them he’s simply taken off after an argument. Hank’s an adult, they say. He’ll come back soon.

Connor doesn’t believe them.

At a loss of what to do he tells Fowler about the fight he and Hank had the night he left their house. Tells him how their friendship had been shifting towards something closer, like a real partnership. Confides in Fowler that Hank has exhibited suicidal tendencies since the first time Connor met him, and about how he’s worried that Hank is going to do something ... permanent.

Fowler rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I knew he was low but I never realised – never thought to ask him...”

“...It is unlikely he would have been honest.” Connor shifts in his seat. He feels restless; his HUD constantly prompting him to ‘Find Hank’ and it frustrates him that he cannot accomplish this task. Hank took his cell phone with him but he either hasn’t switched it on or has somehow managed to disable the GPS. Connor suspects the former. “Captain, he – I hid the gun that he keeps at the house, but I checked for it last night and it was gone.”

“Shit,” Fowler hisses. “You think he’s gonna use it?”

“I don’t know. There’s any number of reasons for him to take a gun to ... wherever it is that he’s gone. He took Sumo with him, though. I can only assume that he doesn’t intend to do anything drastic.”

Fowler is tapping his fingers against the table, thinking, while Connor waits impatiently. “I don’t know what to say,” Fowler says. “The Missing Person’s unit is right: Hank made the decision to leave by himself, but,” he holds up a hand to stop Connor from interrupting, “considering this recent discovery I think it’s necessary to locate him. Make sure he’s okay. But goddamn Connor, I can’t just assign you out on some wild goose chase. I kinda need you here to hold down the fort.”

“I’ll think of something,” Connor promises. It’s unbearable to think that he would just sit around in Detroit when Hank is out there by himself, suffering.

Fowler’s computer pings with a new email at that moment, and a second later Connor receives a report directly to his HUD.

“There’s been a break in at Elijah Kamski’s house,” Fowler says, reading the email with a long suffering sigh. “Always knew some bastard would get lucky. They caught the guy on the security footage, too - ah, shit.”

Connor quietly confirms the sentiment, enhancing the image from the report on his HUD. The person in the image is overwhelmingly familiar. “Hank...” he breathes. The picture shows Hank looking back over his shoulder, staring directly up at the camera that captured the image.

“Fuck Hank,” Fowler says. “What the hell are you playing at?”

*~*

**_Present Day_ **

**_November 6 th 2039, 02:14AM_ **

The snow continues to fall and the town becomes silent. The cabin is warm, thankfully insulated from the cold that threatens to creep inside with each gust of wind. Sumo is snoring gently from where he’s curled up on the couch, nose tucked under his paw and back leg kicking occasionally as he dreams. Hank retreated to bed almost 40 minutes ago but Connor can tell he’s still awake, his breathing nowhere near the deep, even breaths that Connor knows he takes in his sleep.

Connor doesn’t like that they’ve fought - _but that’s what you wanted,_ a treacherous little part of him whispers. He’s been left anxious and worried that he’s damaged any hope of returning to the friendship that they held before. He doesn’t know what he expected to get out of making Hank angry – if he’s being honest, he thinks he might be a little overwhelmed and not at all sure how to handle the sudden end to this 8 month game of cat and mouse that they’ve been playing – but he needs to try and fix it now.

Making a decision, Connor quietly pads over to the side of the bed. Hank’s back still turned to him. When Connor speaks, its soft, hesitant. “Hank?” Hank doesn’t say anything in response, but Connor can see how he tenses up. He takes a deep breath and settles carefully on the edge of the mattress, making it shift under his weight. “I’m sorry that I made you shout,” he continues, just as softly. “I didn’t mean... I-I just wanted to understand...”

He trails off as Hank rolls over on to his back. His blue eyes are watching Connor carefully, saying _go on_ without needing any words. “I’m angry at you for leaving,” Connor confesses, “and I feel guilty for feeling like that. But that first week you were gone I was so scared that I would never see you again. I thought that you were going to kill yourself.”

Hank sighs. “I’d thought about it,” he says quietly.

Connor nods - he already knew that there was a high possibility Hank might have turned the gun on himself but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. He can feel thirium-based tears start to gather in the corners his eyes. He fights them with everything that he has, but his vision still begins to blur. He takes a deep breath, needing to get through this. He needs Hank to understand. “Even in those months of following you around, I was always so scared that I’d find you dead on the floor of whatever motel you’d been staying in.” He reaches out a shaky hand, places it on top of Hank’s. His systems sing at the contact. “I don’t want to live in this world without you, Hank. I-I can’t, and it’s selfish of me to think like this after what you’ve been through but I -” a stifled sob leaving his lips without his permission. He can feel a tear leak out and leave wet trail down his cheek. “You’re so important to me, Hank. I - I couldn’t...”

The rest of his sentence is lost as Hank sits up and crushes Connor against his chest. Connor scrambles for purchase, his hands clutching frantically at the fabric of Hank’s sleep-shirt.

“Easy, Connor,” Hank murmurs against his hair, his big hand running soothingly along Connor’s back. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’m so scared to be alone in this world,” Connor says in between sobs that rock his chassis. “And I’m so glad that you’re like me, that you won’t die like a normal human and it’s _so selfish._ ”

“You need to calm down, Connor. Your spin-y thing is going crazy. Come on, breathe.”

He hiccups, “I don’t need to breathe, Hank...”

“Neither do I, apparently, but that doesn’t mean it won’t help. Breathe with me, in,” Hank takes a deep breath in and Connor tries to follow, but his breath is hitching uncontrollably. “And out,” Hank exhales.

Connor copies him but his systems still fire warnings at him, notifies him that his stress level is at 83%. “T-this isn’t working.”

“Not right away. Keep going: in, and out.” Hank takes one of Connor’s hands and places it over his own chest. Connor’s HUD brings up analysis of Hank’s heart rate. “In, and out.”

Connor obediently follows, and round about the fifth or sixth time his stress level starts to come down. The rise and fall of Hank’s chest as he breathes is what really distracts him from his own distress, along with the knowledge that he is once again close to Hank-- being held by Hank.

His tears subside but he still feels raw, like his emotions have been scrubbed with a steel sponge. He doesn’t want to move from Hank’s warmth, like it’s a soothing balm that is going to heal him from the inside out. “Y-you should _hate_ me...” he says, exhaling shakily.

“Yeah well, I don’t,” Hank replies, drops a gentle kiss against Connor’s head. Connor feels like crying all over again. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me on this.” Hank leans back, forcing Connor to do the same. Hank’s eyes roam over his face, taking him in and Connor wonders what he sees. Hank lifts a hand, cups Connor’s cheek and gently wipes at the tear tracks with his thumb. Connor’s eyes flutter closed. “Jesus, you’re _exhausted._ Come on, let’s get some rest.” Hank reaches down to clasp Connor’s hands. “When was the last time you went in to stasis?”

“Um,” Connor blinks, processing. “Thirteen days ago, I think?”

Hank’s already tugging him further on to the bed before he’s finished speaking, grumbling. “Goddamn idiot, how are you even functioning right now?”

“Based on my emotional outbreak, I don’t appear to be functioning well, at all.”

“Good to know androids cry when they’re tired, too.” Hank is shuffling backwards so that he’s almost pressed up against the wall while he guides Connor to lie down on his back. He keeps one of Connor’s hands clasped in his own. “We can talk more tomorrow, but right now we need some sleep.”vHank pulls the duvet up over both of them with his free hand, settling back with a sigh. “No more running,” he says, looking directly at Connor. “I promise.”

Connor sniffs, squeeze Hank’s hand. “Okay,” he whispers. “Goodnight, Hank.”

Hank offers him a lazy smile. “G’night, Con.”

*~*

**_April 25 th 2039, 15:38PM_ **

Connor starts analysing everything the second he gets out of the car.

The spring snow out here has melted in the warm breeze coming off the river, revealing the perfect consistency of soil for retaining footprints.  He reviewed the security camera footage on his way over - or what was left of it anyway. The recording (the entire security system, actually) had been interrupted by a massive power surge that left it dysfunctional for nearly thirty minutes.

It can’t be a coincidence that Hank was at the house at the exact same time but Connor struggles to accept the idea that _his_ Hank (technologically-challenged Hank) has managed to trip an entire system by himself with no outside influences.

He can’t locate any footprints that would have been made by a 6’2”, slightly overweight police Lieutenant. He keeps scanning as he makes his way up the walkway, and the door is opening before he even reaches for the bell. Chloe is standing on the other side and she smiles pleasantly at him.

“Detective Connor, thank you for coming so quickly,” she says, stepping aside to let him in. “We’re all still a bit surprised by what happened. Well,” she corrects, looking the tiniest bit exasperated, “Elijah doesn’t seem unsettled. It’s like he was expecting this to happen eventually.”

Connor frowns. “He was expecting his house to be broken into?”

“No - like he was expecting Lieutenant Anderson to arrive.”

“I see.” He doesn’t see, not at all. “May I speak with Mr Kamski regarding the incident?”

“Of course, Detective. Please, follow me.”

She leads him through to the room with the swimming pool (empty at the moment) and waits as she knocks on the door to what he assumes is the office. “Elijah?” she calls as she opens the door. “Detective Connor from the Detroit Police Department is here to speak with you.”

“Thank you Chloe,” Kamski’s voice comes from within. “You can let him in.”

She steps back and gestures for Connor to enter, closes the door behind him when she does.

The office is styled much in the same way as the rest of the house: sleek, white and grey walls with eccentric art pinned up. A deep red rug lies on the floor between a pair of chairs and a large white desk. Behind it is another ceiling-height window, offering a view of the lake outside. Kamski is standing there, back to Connor and his hands clasped in front of him.

“Hello Connor,” Kamski says. He doesn’t turn around. “Quiet an unusual circumstance, isn’t it? The android detective investigating the crime caused by his human partner. Well,” he chuckles, “maybe not quite human.”

Alarm bells start going off in Connor’s head. “You knew about the Lieutenant?”

“Of course I knew. I was the one who gave CyberLife permission to experiment in human-android hybrids.” Kamski turns around. “I didn’t realise how far they had advanced, not until they had already made the first prototype.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he continues, stepping slowly towards Connor. “That we achieved the perfect blend of human and machine. Think of the scientific applications, the _lives_ that we could enhance: prosthetic limbs, artificial organs, all of these could be changed to become an organic part of a human’s physiology. Hank Anderson is a scientific marvel.”

Connor bristles. “I’m sure he didn’t appreciate you telling him that,” he says, scanning Kamski’s face. “You should really put apply ice to your cheek before it starts to swell.”

Hank really took a swing at Kamski. The bruising is more prominent on the side of his nose, extending back along his cheekbone. Hank is already strong within human terms - not unrealistically so, but still more than would have been expected for a man of his age - but the extent of damage caused to Kamski’s face is still more than what Connor would have deemed possible for a human.

 _Hank isn’t human_ , he reminds himself.

“Chloe has the information package from a DR400 model,” Kamski waves off his comment. “My face will be fine. And I won’t be pressing charges, in case you are wondering.”

Connor frowns. “For the assault?”

“For the break-in.” Kamski smirks at Connor’s look of surprise. “The DPD was merely notified as a formality, and to attract your attention.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I knew that Lieutenant Anderson would come to me sooner or later,” Kamski continues. He walks over and activates a panel in the wall. It slides out to reveal a liquor cabinet and Kamski takes one of the bottles and pours himself a measure. “I was notified that he had been made aware of his - unique condition, shall we say - and that he had been taken for emergency repairs. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he came here for answers.”

“And what did you tell him, Mr Kamski?” Connor asks. He watches as Kamski takes a sip of brandy, his own eyes considering Connor curiously.

“The same that I’m going to tell you, Detective.” Kamski goes to his desk, picks up a datapad and hands it to Connor. “This is all the information that I gave to the Lieutenant: the entire file on his design, activation, the investigation and court case headed by the FBI and its outcome; his implementation in to human society, under the condition that he is not made aware of what he is.”

Connor presses his forefinger to the datapad and transfers the information to his internal memory. He reads it in seconds, taking in the in-depth theoretical equations used to design a human-android hybrid and the massive ethical debate that occurred once the FBI caught wind of it; the incredibly intricate and advanced technologies used in changing Hank’s personality and memories from biological to mechanical.

He sets the datapad back on the desk. He knew theoretically what must have transpired to create Hank but it’s still overwhelming to see the science for himself.

“CyberLife must have been working on this concept for a long time for them to be able to develop the technology needed,” he comments.

Kamski spreads his arms wide. “Since the moment we created the first android to pass the Turing test,” he says, pleased. “But the world wasn’t ready for this kind of advancement - perhaps it never will be - but we achieved something incredible with Lieutenant Anderson.”

“At the cost of his humanity,” Connor says, an undercurrent of fury running through him. He feels … angry on Hank’s behalf, knowing that the man was used as a guinea pig for CyberLife’s own profit.

“He still believed he was a human,” Kamski shrugs, unaffected by the entire conversation. “He continued to live a human life - as far as he was concerned anyway. What was so wrong with that?”

“And what was your plan for the day that he realised he wasn’t aging like a normal human should?” Connor asks. “When he watched his friends around him die while he didn’t change?”

“He would have been informed eventually: it just happened a lot sooner than we anticipated.”

None of this settles well with Connor but something small, probably inconsequential, is getting caught up in his processing. “You said that you gave Lieutenant Anderson the same data,” he says. “Did he take a copy of the information?”

“In a way.”

If Connor were human, he is sure his eye would be twitching in frustration. “If you are not going to be forthcoming with your answers then we can continue this conversation down at the precinct.”

Kamski sighs in an infuriatingly put-upon way. “If you must know, the Lieutenant received the information in the same way you did.” He smirks, “He interfaced for it.”

Of all the answers, this was the one Connor expected the least. “Lieutenant Anderson does not know _how_ to interface,” he states somewhat confidently, but he already knows that Kamski is not lying. It’s the only explanation for Hank being able to bring down an entire security system in just a few seconds.

“I believe he mentioned that he had spent some time visiting with your android saviour, Markus. It’s not entirely impossible that he showed the Lieutenant how to maximise his ... experience, shall we say.”

Connor exhales heavily, adds a visit to Markus to his list of witnesses to speak with. Markus is his friend, he knows how worried Connor has been; if Hank had been in touch with him, then why wouldn’t Markus have come to Connor? “Did Lieutenant Anderson happen to mention where he was going to next?”

“No,” Kamski says. _Not lying_ , Connor confirms again. “He did not say. Perhaps Markus will be able to shine more light on the situation.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Kamski,” Connor says as politely as he can. It’s harder than he expects: Hank’s mannerism have apparently been rubbing off on him. “If you can remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Connor,” Kamski says as he walks Connor to the door. “If I can be of any further help, let me know.”

He nods, but doesn’t plan to contact Kamski again unless his life depends on it. He sees himself out of the building, calling another taxi to come and collect him. It’s estimated arrival time if 5.3 minutes.

Connor stands in the driveway as he waits, processing what he has discovered. Hank, at some point in the last 26 days, has visited with Markus for an interminable amount of time and has learned either from him or some other android how to interface and interact with technology. He then used that knowledge to break in to Kamski’s house, gather the data on the creation of his android body and punch Kamski in the face, leaving just as the security system rebooted.

He had looked right up at the camera, Connor remembers, as he had exited the building.

Connor tries not to entertain the idea that Hank was looking at him.

                                                                                            *~*        

**_Present Day_ **

**_November 6 th 2039, 07:42AM_ **

Connor’s woken from stasis when the mattress dips suddenly, a heavy body draping itself across his legs. He blinks his eyes open to see Sumo settling in and resting his large head on Connor’s chest. He _woofs_ softly when he sees Connor awake and his tail starts to thump lazily against the bed.

The android smiles and ruffles the dog’s fur. “Good morning, Sumo,” Connor mumbles, affecting coursing through him at the sight of his furry friend. He scratches the space between Sumo’s eyes, the dog grumbling sleepily in return. “You’ll be getting hungry soon, and you’ll need to go outside.” Sumo just huffs and nuzzles closer to Connor’s chest, not worried about either of those things at the moment as he closes his eyes and starts to doze off, so Connor lets him be.

He glances to his left to see that Hank is still asleep on other side of the bed. A quick scan shows that he’s nearing end of his sleep cycle. He will be awake soon, and Connor wonders how their tentative friendship will fare in the daylight, after he tried to push Hank past his breaking point.

He has so many questions. He wants - no, _needs_ to know what Hank has been doing for the last 8 months that he has been gone. He hardly left any traces behind, purely the bare minimum for Connor to go on to follow him to the next location and sometimes nothing to go on at all. He’s been returning to work at the DPD as often as he can but the second he had nothing on his desk and he got a notification from his Hank-tuned algorithm he would be gone for weeks on end until the trail ran dry again.

Fowler has been overwhelmingly cooperative in letting Connor go off on his wild hunts whenever he needed to. He says that there’s technically still a warrant out for Hank’s arrest (a warrant that curiously doesn’t seem to have been shared with any local law enforcement beyond the boundaries of Detroit. Connor’s checked) so if Connor got a lead he was free to follow it, providing there was nothing urgent dropped on his desk before he left.

Thinking of the Captain prompts him to open his messaging service and he sends a quick email to Fowler to let him know that he’s found their friend. He doesn’t mention anything about when he’s expecting to return this time.

He doesn’t even know if Hank wants to go home.

It’s late in Detroit, and Fowler is likely asleep at home at this moment so Connor sets up an alert to notify him when the Captain has opened his message.

That out of the way, he starts diagnostics on his internal systems, checking that everything is still running as it should be. He’s barely stopped moving for the last two weeks while he followed the latest line of clues that Hank had left - or arranged to be planted at certain dates, apparently - as fast as he could to finally catch up with the man, worried that the trail would run cold again. He’s hasn’t performed any system maintenance during that time, save for the occasional cup of thirium when he could manage it.

Connor frowns when the report comes back showing vital systems only working at between 68-74% of their optimal capacity when they should be coming in at almost 100%. Minor maintenance and adjustments have started while he was in stasis and he starts allocating RAM to work on the most important repairs first (core processing unit, thirium pump regulator, cooling systems) and sets up a maintenance schedule for the rest of his systems to follow throughout the rest of the day. He should be functioning normally by 7:32pm. Repairs wouldn’t normally take that long but he’s running low on thirium and brought a limited supply with him through customs. He’ll need to try and find a store soon where he can purchase more.

Hank groans from beside him, startling him as he hadn’t noticed the man wake up. “Jesus Connor, I can _hear_ you thinking over here.”

“No you can’t,” Connor says. He dismisses the timer for the updates from his HUD and clears it to look over at Hank. He’s rolling over to face Connor, blue eyes still bleary as he blinks the sleep from them. There’s nothing but the bleak morning light to illuminate the room and it casts a stark light across everything but Connor hasn’t seen Hank in the morning in so long that he feels it like a punch to the gut when he realizes exactly how much he’s missed it.

Hank pulls the duvet up a little higher over his shoulders, grunting. “Okay, so I can’t hear you think but I’m pretty sure I can hear your fans whirring about in there, and unless you’ve been running a marathon during the night you’re probably processing some shit.”

“I need to perform essential maintenance to restore my systems.”

Hank has closed his eyes again but he blinks one open and scrutinizes Connor from under the blankets. “You really didn’t go in to stasis for thirteen days?” he asks. Connor nods. “Fuck. I didn’t mean for you to almost run yourself in to the ground.”

“I wanted to find you,” Connor says softly. He distracts himself from Hank’s gaze by running fingers through Sumo’s fur, the dog rumbling happily. “I didn’t want to miss any chance to find you.”

Silence settles over them. Hank watches Connor, and Connor avoids his eyes.

Eventually Hank sighs and pushes up to sit upright on the bed. Sumo’s big brown eyes open and dart over to Hank, his tail wagging a little. “I know I owe you an explanation,” Hank says. He pats Sumo’s back when the dog whines for his attention. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. But I need coffee and food, in that order. Sumo needs a walk, too.”

Connor nods. “I don’t mind taking Sumo out, if you’d like?”

“Nah,” Hank waves him off. “We’ll go together. You can feed him though. Food’s under the sink. I gotta take a leak.”

Connor gently manoeuvres Sumo off the bed before stepping out himself. Hank shuffles out after them and heads over to the bathroom, yawning and stretching as he goes.

Sumo leads Connor over to his bowl and it doesn’t take long to locate the dog food and he pours the appropriate amount in to the bowl. He refills the water dish too, then puts the kettle on to boil and scans the small kitchenette for the coffee while Sumo munches away, finds it underneath a slightly damp tea towel. He hands the towel up to dry over a radiator and rinses the nearest mug he can find.

Connor has a cup of coffee ready, just the way Hank likes it, by the time the man exits the bathroom.

“You didn’t need to do that, Connor,” he says when Connor holds out the mug, like a peace offering. He accepts it, fingers brushing Connor’s as he takes it.

Connor shrugs, “I’ve missed doing things for you. It’s been ... quiet.”

Hank doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, just sips his coffee in silence. Connor doesn’t mind; he starts poking through the cabinets, looking for something to prepare for Hank’s breakfast.

“Did you...” Hank trails off, looks out kitchen window at the snow that has fallen overnight. “Did you keep living in the house?”

Connor retrieves some oatmeal, finds some blueberries in the fridge, and sets a pot to heat up some milk on the stove. “For a while,” Connor says. “I started staying at the precinct more, the longer you were away. They still have the android charging stations there, so I was able to safely go in to stasis at night.” He pauses. “It also meant I would have the systems needed to locate you if you were picked up on any CCTV.”

“...You had CCTV rigged up to search for my face?” Hank asks. “How did you convince the feds to let you do that?”

“I didn’t,” he replies lightly. “It wasn’t difficult to hack the FBI’s mainframe; their firewall is dreadful.”

Hank makes an impressed noise and smiles against his mug.

The oatmeal cooks quickly and Connor plates it up. Hank takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’ and Connor feels a small sense of satisfaction course through him when his task of _‘Make Hank breakfast’_ completes, the positive feedback humming in his circuitry.

Connor checks his backpack while Hank eats; takes one of the remaining three pouches of thirium and pours it in to his travel mug. He leans against the counter opposite where Hank is standing and drinks, watching as his thirium level rises from 67% to 81%. He’ll need to replenish his levels again later but for now this will do.

Hank is just rinsing the dishes in the sink when Sumo waddles over to sit in front of the door, looking pointedly up at the handle. “Hang on, old boy,” Hank says when the dog woofs impatiently. “Let me get my shoes on.”

Hank starts getting dressed so Connor wrap himself up in his winter gear again, laces up his hiking boots. He casts about for Sumo’s leash and finds it draped over the back of the couch so he grabs it and clips it in place on Sumo’s collar. Sumo starts wriggling in place, only getting more excited when Hank joins them.

“Alright,” he says, takes the keys from the kitchen counter. “Let’s go.”

*~*

**_April 25 th 2039, 18:02PM_ **

Markus agrees to meet with him almost immediately. Nothing that he says is what Connor wants to hear:

_“Hank came to me for assistance...”_

_“He wanted to know how to fully access his systems to the same extent as a typical android...”_

_“We interfaced so I could show him how it works...”_

_“It doesn’t work the same as ours - they tried to keep him as close to human as possible...”_

They interfaced. Hank and Markus.

Hank went to Markus for help.

He preferred to go to someone who was basically nothing more than a stranger and favoured their assistance over Connor’s.

They’re in the study of Carl Manfred’s house. Markus is sitting, relaxed in one of the armchairs while Connor paces anxiously in front of him. Markus’ eyes follow his path around the room, seemingly unaffected by Connor’s turmoil.

He does another full two circuits around the room before coming to a standstill a little ways off from Markus. “Why didn’t he come to me with this?” Connor eventually says, lost. “I’m his friend. I’m his -” He stops himself, before he can say that he’s Hank’s _partner_. He doesn’t need Markus’ watchful gaze to become any more pitying. In the end he just says quietly, “He could have come to me.”

Markus doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Hank is just as lost as any of us where when we first discovered deviancy, maybe even more so in his case. We always knew what we were: Hank’s only just discovering himself. He needs time to sort through his thoughts. He’ll come back soon.”

 _That_ catches Connor’s attention. His eyes snap over to Markus, calculating. “Do you know where he is going?”

“Connor, I don’t think you should go looking for him right now...”

“ _Do you know where he is going?_ ” he demands, staring Markus down. He won’t back down on this, he just _won’t_.

Markus thankfully seems to come to the same conclusion. He sighs, closes his eyes. “No,” he eventually says and Connor feels like the rug has been pulled right from under him. “No, I don’t know where he is going. All I know is that wants to escape for a while, to get away.”

“Did he tell you this?”

“Not with his words.” Markus holds out his hand, his artificial skin peeling to reveal smooth white plastic.

Connor pauses, uncertain. He hasn’t ever been in a two-way interface before, where both androids were willing participants (he’s not proud of what he did before he went deviant). But Markus might know something about Hank’s mindset and Connor wants to be selfish just one last time, to know if Hank is going to be okay.

He steps forward, his skin phasing away to reveal his chassis and he clasps Markus his hand. Closes his eyes. Focuses.

The data that Markus shows him is messy; inconsistent and overwhelming. He can trace the base coding that’s present in every android base package but there something innately _organic_ about this data, almost stopping if from being something that Connor can make sense of.

But the pieces that he does get almost make his pump stop.

c̶̲͋̉ā̶̫N̴͎̂̐T̵̳͕͂͋

̸̘    D̶̬́̂ͅo̶̧̜͌n̶̟̓t̵͙̅ ̷̤̈́ṳ̴̑̓ͅÑ̶̳D̷̛͙͙̈́e̶̼͔̊R̷̳̅͌s̵͍͔̑t̶͙̎ā̷̹̖͠n̴̖͗͒D̸̫͒̾

̶͙̼̊a̸̡̿̚n̵̞͛̇d̴̬́r̵͓̐ǫ̷͎̿i̵͉̳͑D̸͖͂

̷̙͌ ̵̭̗̐̔ ̷̢̫̅ ̶͖̳͛ ̶͈ ̸̤͕͠ ̸͖̜̽̌ ̸̟͛͜͝Ǫ̸͘Ȓ̷̳͔̚

̷̬͖͆͆  ̵̺͓̀ ̵͍̟͗ ̷͔̃̏ ̴͓̜̈́ ̴͈͛ḧ̴̹́u̴͈̻ṁ̸̺͚̂A̸̱͐̓n̴͑̓ͅ ̵̦͇̅?̷̘͠?̷̩̻̍?̵͓͖͗

̷̫̔-̷̆͌͜ ̸̛̗n̷̜̉e̸͉̾̈e̸͓̓d̶̥̐̊ ̷̭̘̐e̷͓͂s̵̛̪̦͆c̴̥̈́̾a̷̗̹̓p̵̺̳e̴͙̒͝

̷̖̑   L̷͚̖̕E̸̢̢͆a̸̱̐V̷̦̮͑E̶͖̬̋ ̸͍̠͝C̶͚̄Ǫ̶̭̕N̷͖̬͝ ̷͈͊N̷̲̊̕ͅǪ̶͂R̸̥͂͋?̵̛͓͝?̷͓̈́̔

̸̙̓ͅ ̷̝̑ͅ ̸͍̿ͅ ̵͕̍ ̴̞͓͐  ̷̧̼͂ ̴̮̚ ̵̻̳̓ ̶̦̯̈́̈́Ȳ̴̧̼/̷̗̬̓͆N̵̨͚̋̀?̸̗̼̎

̵̭̼̊E̵̻̽̽N̸̝̅T̵͖͓̊̄ẻ̴͖̺̚R̷̯̖̔ ̵̦̈͝C̴̝̮̓̊ô̸̝͖͛m̴̨̈́M̵͔̏A̸̩̻̽n̸̡̞̐d̸̖͌̔ ̸̏͘͜-̵̩̰̕

-̴̤͔̑ ̸̠̰̾̓ **Y** **̷̮̿** **?** **̸̤͋** **̷** **̉** **̝̿**

̶͎͍͑ ̸̝̬́ ̶̪̒ ̶̢̖͗ ̷͖͆͘ ̵̛̤͚̈́ ̷̯̒͝ ̸̩͒͋ ̸͉͐ ̴̜̋̈ ̵̣̈́ ̶̨̎ ̷̥̅̿

 ** _E _ ** **_ ̴̦̯͂ _ ** **_ R _ ** **_ ̶̰͗ _ ** **_ R _ ** **_ ̷̛͙͗ _ ** **_ O _ ** **_ ̷͕͌ _ ** **_ R _ ** **_ ̷͊ _ ** **_ ̉ _ ** **_ ̟̫ _ **

̸̳͆ _s_ _̶̈́_ _́_ _̟_ _t_ _̸̠͛_ _A_ _̴̱̪̇̈́_ _A_ _̷̛̤͈̍_ _Y_ _̸̯̭͂_

̶̻̫̀͌ ̶̤͒̊ ̷̗̊͜F̴̭̃͝ ̶̯͚́̓l̵̢̳̏ė̵̯e̶̹͇̊͘

̶̜̌ ̵͈̳͊ ̴̱͈̊ ̵̠͙̔S̷̟̆͝T̶͇̓ȃ̶͚̄Ȳ̵̦̓

̴͓̈̎f̸̤̔̓l̸̥͙̊Ḛ̷̗̌E̴͉͉͐

̷̘̘̾ ̴̻̅͆ _̷̅_ _̣f_ _̸͕̎_ _l_ _̸͙̝̽_ _e_ _̵̢̆_ _e_ _̴̛̭̇_

̴̪̀ ** _F_** ** _̷̡̋͝_** **_̵̞͗_** ** _L_** ** _̴_** ** _̃_** ** _͔_** **_̶̦̬̄_** ** _E_** ** _̶̬̑̿_** **_̴̧̆̕_** ** _E_** ** _̶͊_** ** _̃_** ** _̗_** **_̷̂_** ** _́_** ** _ͅ_**

E̴̝̯͌͋N̴͚̥̊T̴̬̜͗ê̵͓R̷̟̓̕ ̶͎̏̒C̷̯͖ǫ̶͖̔̎m̸͓͎̈M̸͙͂̅A̸͈̓n̶͙̾d̶̺͊-̸̶̝̭̠͑̀͝ ** _Y_** ** _̴̛̰_**

̵̻̙̓ ̶̣̽̑ ̷̼̕ ̷̦̹̚͝

̵͎̝̍̓

 

 

Connor breaks the interface suddenly with a gasp. His HUD is firing alerts at him, notifying him that his stress levels are too high, his systems have entered a panicked state, go in to stasis to prevent further damage.

A tear slips down his cheek. Markus is looking up at him with sympathy.

“He’s gone,” Connor whispers, shocked. He feels something cold settle low in his systems, gripping him tight and flooding his veins with ice. He stumbles back and sits shakily on the couch opposite Markus. “H-he left.”

 _He left me_.

“It’s only temporary,” Markus says. He sounds so sure of himself. Connor doesn’t know where this confidence comes from because nothing about what he just saw gives him any hope. Markus continues, “The Lieutenant needs space, Connor. It’s a common human trait, to put distance between you and whatever bothers you. In Hank’s case, he needs a change of scenery: to get away from here to start... processing.” Markus pauses, as if picking his next words carefully. “He can’t do that with you around.”

Connor tries not to let that break him. “I’ll find him,” he says weakly but Markus is shaking his head.

“Give him his space - for a little while at least. He won’t be gone forever.”

Markus can’t possibly know that, Connor thinks when he leaves the mansion later that evening. He’s already working on an algorithm for recognising Hank’s face to embed in to the security camera network across the United States so that he’ll be notified when Hank makes an appearance.

He’ll find Hank, no matter what Markus says.

               ** ** _Primary objective: Locate Lt. Hank Anderson**_**

_He will find Hank again._

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_Present Day_ **

**_November 6 th 2039, 09:03AM_ **

Sumo happily barrels through the snow ahead of them, walking a path that is apparently well-known to him and Hank. They pass through a small evergreen forest, not seeing any other signs of life apart from the occasional squirrel or deer. There are no humans out at the moment.

The path they take leads them to the edge of a park and Hank bends down to unclip Sumo’s leash, letting the dog free to play about in the snow like the giant puppy he is. He kicks up flurries as he jumps in and out of snow drifts that have gathered in this sheltered area.

Hank chuckles fondly, his breath misting in front of his mouth. “He never gets tired of the snow,” he says. “We’ve come here almost every day for the last two months and he still fucking loves it.”

“I’m glad that he’s enjoying himself.” Connor tucks his hands in to his pockets. His beanie is once again draped over his head, covering his LED. “It’s peaceful here,” he adds after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, it is. Never thought I’d be happy in a quiet little town like this.”

“And are you? Happy here, I mean.”

Hank scratches at his cheek, grimacing. “A little, I guess. There’s something about a small town community like this that you just don’t get in the big cities. Everyone goin’ out  their way to help their neighbour. It’s nice.” He pauses, and sighs “I kinda miss the hustle and bustle of Detroit though - even miss those stupid autonomous cars that we have everywhere. Never realised how smooth the traffic flows there until I got further away from Michigan. Humans drive like assholes, y’know.”

Connor glances at Hank from the corner of his eye. “...Do you think you’ll come back?”

The wind kicks up a bit, sending some of the powder back up in to the air. Sumo chases after it happily, trying to catch the flurries in his mouth. Hank doesn’t answer him, not directly anyway: “I didn’t mean to stay away for as long as this.”

“But you did. You kept running.”

“... I guess part of me was scared about what you’d say when you found me,” Hank admits. “I didn’t feel good about the way I left you, but then one month turned in to two and I just - the thought of going back got harder. And I think -” Hank breaks off and takes a deep breath, “I think I was testing you. To see if you’d keep looking.”

Connor let’s that percolate for a moment: in all of his preconstructions he had never once considered the idea that Hank was doing this to assess his determination. Connor turns to Hank, levelling him with the most serious look he can manage. “I would never have stopped searching for you,” he says, certain. “Even if you stopped leaving those clues, I would have kept looking. You are _important_ to me, Hank. And I know -” he stops, corrects himself, “I _knew_ I was important to you, too. You would have done the same for me.”

Hank finally turns to look at him then, and it’s almost as if he’s analysing Connor in return: his eyes take in all of Connor’s face, lingering longer on the freckles that he knows Hank is rather fond of, up to where Hank knows his LED is concealed beneath the beanie.

“Yeah,” Hank says eventually, the word spoken softly between them, “I would have done the same.” He looks away, over at where Sumo has started barking at a squirrel that’s scampered up a tree. “And of course you’re important to me, you idiot - I asked you to move in with me, didn’t I?”

Connor tries and fails to hide a smile. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s a first,” Hank snorts, but he’s smiling too. “Come on, there’s a great spot up near the top of that hill. You can see all of town from there, you’ll like it.”

*~*

Connor does enjoy the view of the town from the hilltop. All the buildings are covered in white like snow-frosted cupcakes, steam gently wafting up in the morning sun as the town begins to wake. The Highlands rise up behind the town like watching sentries, keeping the town safe from the worst parts of the snow storms a providing a breath-taking backdrop to an already beautiful view. Connor saves several high-definition images to his hard drive.

They walk in to town, Connor revealing the need to procure more thirium and Hank claims to know someone who can help them. It’s a winding path down the hill and Sumo bounds ahead of them, chasing the flurries of snow that he kicks up. Hank clips the leash back onto his collar before they reach the main road and the sounds of cars alert them to the locals starting their daily routines.

They pass a few people on their way, some of them patting Sumo as they pass and waving to Hank. Hank always waves back, exchanges a few pleasantries, and Connor is once again struck by how Hank has carved himself a little slice of this rural life, so far removed from what he had in Detroit.

Hank catches him smiling at him. He huffs, tugs his scarf further up his neck. “What you looking at?” he grumbles, the tips of his ears staining red.

Connor can’t stop the smile the tugs the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

Hank leads them to a little hardware shop tucked away in a corner at the far end of the town. The owner is just opening up as they approach, and he smiles pleasantly in greeting as they approach.

“Good morning, gentleman,” he says, his Scottish accent lilting pleasantly. Connor automatically scans him (Neal McCulloch, 62, no criminal record). “I heard there was a newcomer last night. Ye a friend of Hank’s, lad?”

“I am,” Connor replies. He tilts his head to the side. “You know Hank?”

“Aye, he’s been in a fair few times. Asks all sorts of questions, that one. Well, come on in and let’s see what we can do for ye.”

Connor follows Neal in to the shop, Hank and Sumo close behind. “You come here a lot?” he asks of Hank.

“I’m not exactly a technician,” Hank mumbles in reply. “I might’ve needed a hand a few times when I got here. Neal’s been discreet when I needed to get fixed up. Nothing major,” Hank amends at Connor’s worried look, “just a few things that came loose in my travels.”

They go to the back of the shop where a small till stands on a single counter. Neal kicks a box out of the way and turns. He claps his hands together. “What’s your name, son?”

“My name is Connor.” He has to stop himself from kicking Hank when he snorts.

“A pleasure to meet ye, Connor.” He offers his hand, and Connor matches his firm handshake as best as he can. “And what can I help ye with today?”

“I’m in need of thirium, if you have any,” he explains. Better to get straight to the point, and if Hank trusts him then Connor can as well.

“Aye, I’ve got plenty.” Neal disappears behind a bead curtain. It clatters in his wake. “I’ll need yer model and serial number for authorisation, if ye don’t mind.”

Connor nods. “Of course.” It has been standard procedure since the revolution for androids to prove their identity to purchase thirium. It kept it from falling in to the wrong hands.

Neal comes back out with a box which he sets on the countertop. He takes Connor’s details, his eyebrows raising when he logs them in to his laptop. “Never seen one o’ yer kind before,” he says. “RK800 series. That what CyberLife were working on before you all woke up?”

“Yes. I’m a prototype.”

“D’ye mind me asking what you were designed for?”

Connor shakes his head. “I was made to assist law enforcement and actively engage in investigative work. I have a wide range of intellectual abilities and can analyse in real-time.”

Neal lets out a slow whistle, impressed. “Top class, you are. What are ye doing kicking around with someone like Hank?”

“Fuck you too, Neal,” Hank says, but he’s grinning.

Connor smiles. “I was assigned to assist him in investigation of deviants. We were partners.”

“Oh, so you’re both big-time detective prototypes?” Neal tuts. “You’ve been holding out on me Hank. Think of everything I coulda learned if you just shared your schematics.”

“Not on your life, old man.”

Connor takes a further look in to Neal’s personal and public records. “I don’t mind providing you with a copy of mine,” Connor says. Neal had apparently graduated top of his class in engineer at the University of Bristol and has contributed to the ongoing advancement of the UK’s power upgrades and designed several schematics for his own autonomous equipment. There are also hundreds of online comments written by androids boasting Neal’s skill and professionalism in repairing them and their preference of him over the CyberLife certified technicians. The comments date back both before and after the revolution. “You might find something in them that will help you repair the more advanced models that you encounter.”

Neal doesn’t bat an eyelid at Connor suddenly knowing this, but he does brighten up at the prospect of gaining new knowledge. “Well, if ye were kind enough to do that, then I’d be happy to give you a discount on the thirium.”

Connor agrees, and he interfaces with Neal’s laptop to download his base programming, schematics and users’ manual along with the complex detail that accompanies his artificial nervous system. Neal looks like he’s just witnessed a miracle when he scrolls over the data pack. “Ah think I’ve found my bedtime reading for the next year,” he says, passing a datapad over for the payment, discount included. Connor sneakily adjusts the amount when Neal can’t see and pays more than the full price anyway.

He leaves with the thirium tucked away in his backpack, enough to last him for another couple of months and thanks Neal for his help. Hank says his goodbyes and they leave the store, going back out in to the bright morning light. Hank stops at a grocery store to pick up some more food and then they head back to the cabin.

Once inside, Hank busies himself with making some more coffee and Sumo collapses on the rug for a nap. Connor retrieves his portable repair kit and sits on the couch, checking his task list of repairs that he needs to go through. He’s currently operating at 83% which, while better than it had been that morning, is still much lower than Connor is used to. He decides to work on his left arm first, where a small connectivity issue has made itself known that can’t be fixed by internal maintenance. His artificial skin peels away from his hand up to his elbow and he triggers the mechanism to open the panel on the inside of his arm.

He focuses on the minor repair, untangling the cables that act as his tendons to reach the smaller, thinner wires that hide at the centre. It’s easy to find the wire that’s shorting out and he quickly locates the section that it malfunctioning and isolates the power to it before cutting it out. He solders the ends of the replacement wire (not CyberLife issued, but it will do until he can get access to the proper parts) and carefully slots it in to place in his arm, waiting patiently for the ends to melt together. He feels the electricity pulse through it as it connects with his software and his HUD confirms that the error has now been corrected. Satisfied, Connor closes the panel, artificial skin slipping back in to place.

“Am I gonna have to start doing that?” Hank asks. Connor blinks, not realising that Hank had been watching him. He worries briefly, that he might have upset Hank and quickly scans him but Hank’s vitals are normal, and there is only curiosity in his eyes.

“No. You’re fully self-sufficient. You are the only model that can successfully extract nutrients from food and drink, and use it to replenish your thirium levels.”

Hank snorts. “Fuckin’ scientific marvel, that’s me,” he grumbles, and takes a seat next to Connor, coffee mug cradled carefully between his hands. Black, two sugars.

“You are the most advanced prototype that CyberLife ever made.” Connor says it carefully, not wanting to break this truce they have arrived at. Hank only snorts again and inhales half of his drink. “You should not need repairs, just basic internal maintenance. Your body will do it automatically, providing you have enough thirium to support it.”

Hank hums, thoughtful. “Sounds like you know a lot about me,” he says, glancing at Connor.

Connor raises on shoulder in a shrug. “I have studied your schematics. Repeatedly. You are … amazing,” he finishes, honestly. Hank flushes and looks away.

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat to it. “How the fuck did you get a hold of that data?”

“I didn’t punch Mr. Kamski in the face for it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Hank laughs like he’s been reminded of a fond memory and not like he committed assault, and Connor tries not to smile. “He was kind enough to part with the information willingly.”

“Heh, I would have decked him anyway.” Hank leans back in to the couch, and gestures at Connor. “Well since you appear to be the expert, do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Please do.”

Hank, understandably, has more than ‘a few’ questions, and they spend the better part of the afternoon talking. Hank asks about himself and Connor answers as honestly as he can: yes, there are a few select people who were made aware of what Hank is - Jeffrey, his physician, the doctors who monitored him at the hospital, a few CyberLife technicians, but very few androids would have the appropriate scanners to be able to see that he’s not human.

“Did CyberLife ever plan on telling me about all this?”

“I don’t know, Hank. They would have needed to eventually, but the FBI hit them with so many court orders that they would only have been able to say something when it became necessary to intervene.”

“Like falling four floors off a walkway?”

“For example.”

Some questions were harder to answer. Connor knew that Hank would ask about the car crash which subsequently caused Cole to lose his life, but it was heart-breaking to watch Hank deflate when he told him that there was nothing he could have done differently. Hank wasn’t designed to be like other androids: he was made, for all intents and purposes, to be _human_. That meant no HUD, no preconstructions, no android-speed reflexes.

There are a few up-sides though: he possesses a strength far greater than is possible for a human of his height and age (“Thanks, Connor,” Hank tells him sarcastically) and he obviously has the ability for interfacing and, Hank reveals, since speaking with Markus he’s actually been able to scan other people and androids. It’s nowhere near as detailed as the scanner that Connor has and from Hank’s description he doesn’t so much get visual information (since he has no HUD) but he does get what he can only define as being a ‘gut feeling’ about something.

“I dunno, I don’t think I can describe it,” Hank admits, scratching at his beard. “It’s just - I guess I’ve always been doing it, y’know? Only now I can actually tell when I’m doing it.”

“Would you…” Connor hesitates. What he is about to ask my be crossing a line, but he is insanely curious. “We could interface, and you could show me?” Hank doesn’t say anything but he looks surprised at the request. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. We can forget I -”

Hank holds up his hands. “Whoa now, I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. Just thought, y’know, that wasn’t something you just did.”

“What do you mean?” Connor asks, frowning. “You interfaced with Markus.”

“Nah, I mean _you_ specifically, Connor. I’ve never seen you interface with anyone except for that one android in CyberLife’s basement. You kind of keep to yourself.”

“…Oh.” Connor blinks. He looks down at his hands, considering. Hank is right. What comes so naturally to other androids is something that Connor struggles with. “Before my deviancy, interfacing with another android was a tool to be used to unwillingly extract information from them. I am …” He trails off, LED flickering yellow. “I find I am hesitantly to interface so casually with others.”

Hank hums. “Yeah okay, that’d make sense. Bad memories and all that.”

“I - I interfaced with Markus,” Connor admits, “to understand what your thought process was when you made the decision to leave. I did not enjoy it - I was stressed, and anxious at the time. The data transfer that I received from your own interface with him was troubling, to say the least.”

“Connor, we don’t have to interface if you don’t want to,” Hank says, frowning. “I ain’t gonna force you in to something that makes you uncomfortable.”

“I _want_ to interface with you though,” Connor counters. “I just assumed that _you_ wouldn’t want to.”

“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” Hank says. He adjusts his position on the couch so that he facing Connor, left knee bent and resting on the cushions. He holds his hand up and wiggles his fingers. “You gotta start it though; I’ve no fucking clue how this thing even works.”

Connor nods, suddenly nervous. Interfacing should be innate in every android but Connor has to convince his system to raise his own hand and clasp Hank’s, his skin fading back from his Hank. He starts when the skin on Hank’s hand disappears as well, and he takes his own hand back in surprise. “I didn’t realise you could do that,” he says, fascinated.

“I can’t turn it on and off myself, it just happens when another android’s chassis touches me.”

Connor carefully takes Hank’s hand again, watching the skin melt back. “I’m going to start the interface now. If there is anything that you do not wish for me to know, just picture it in a box or behind a door. I will not look.”

“Sure. Okay.”

Connor initiates the link and for a moment there’s nothing - and then Hank’s system connects with his and he’s being wrapped in _warmthsercurityhomehappiness_ and it’s so overwhelming that he almost breaks contact but after a second it gets quieter, more manageable and Connor realises the influx in emotion came from Hank.

_“Sorry about that,”_ Hank says sheepishly across the link. _“I’ve not had much practice with this whole thing.”_

Connor smiles. _“It’s alright. I’m surprised that you have mastered so much control already, considering this is only your second interface.”_ He accidentally turns the statement in to a question right at the very end without realising.

_“Nah, I’ve not done it with anyone but you and Markus.”_

At Markus’ name Connor is shown a short video file, from Hank’s perspective, as he takes Markus’ offered hand to start an interface. Markus is smiling kindly, explaining patiently what he’s going to do to Hank at each step. Connor is jealous, he suddenly realises, to think that Markus knew Hank like this first. He tries to block the emotion out before Hank picks up on it but judging by Hank’s laughter floating across their link, he is not successful.

_“I’m flattered,”_ Hank teases.

“ _Shut up,”_ Connor says. Hank chuckles but doesn’t bring it up again, so Connor turns his concentration to monitoring the layout of Hank’s mind palace.

His first impression is that it’s a lot less chaotic than what he was expecting, especially after that first interface with Markus. Hank’s thoughts are more organised, no longer cascading over each other like a waterfall tumbling over the edge of a cliff.

He pokes around a little, avoids the clusters of data that he feels resistance from, and works out a plan to teach Hank how to manage this side of him. _“If I show you how I run commands and diagnostics it may help you locate the pathways and execute the orders manually.”_

_“Hit me with it.”_

Connor does and he is able to trigger Hank’s diagnostic logs and show him which lines of code indicate an error and gives an example of what he would see if a part needed to be replaced.

_“Is that the bit of your arm that you took out earlier?”_

_“It is.”_

_“Huh. Neat. Hey, show me what you do when you scan people for stress and shit.”_

Connor is more than happy to oblige. He ends up educating Hank on how to identify visible signs of stress in androids other than looking at their LED. He asks Hank to show him what he gets when he runs his own scans on people and he understands now what Hank means when he says he gets a ‘gut feeling’.

_“Your scanner is actually more advanced than I was expecting,”_ he says in surprise. _“But since you lack the visual display that other androids have to interpret the data that you receive, the information is instead worked in to your neural pathways and translated in to instincts instead. ‘Gut feeling’ is actually very accurate.”_

_“Well thank fuck these android superpowers are at least useful for something.”_

_“You were already a renowned Lieutenant before this_ ,” Connor points out. _“You still earned your position in your own right_.” Hank doesn’t reply, but Connor feels the _gratefulness_ across the link.

Satisfied with his investigation, Connor lets Hank know that he’s going to break the link and he can feel Hank’s presence withdraw from his mind. When he opens his eyes he is treated with the sight of the bare chassis of his hand over Hank’s skin. It’s triggers a desire inside of him to wonder what it would look like if Connor were to completely deactivate his skin. If Hank would want to see Connor with his skin off someday.

“I would,” Hank says with a smirk.

Connor flushes blue. “Oh,” he breathes out, embarrassed. There is still a low-level connection running between them and he tries to snatch his hand away but Hank’s grip holds firm, some of the android strength coming in to play. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“Still doesn’t change my answer.” Hank turns his hand to weave their fingers together and squeezes gently. Connor can feel _affection_ and _intrigue_ floating across the link. “I’ve always wondered what you’d look like underneath all that.”

Connor swallows reflexively. He’s trying not to think about being spread out under Hank, completely bare, with his chassis pressing against Hank’s skin. Hank’s pupils dilate and Connor curses internally. “I … I don’t think I’m ready for you to see all of me yet,” he says, quietly.

“That’s okay,” Hank assures him. His thumb is rubbing distractedly over the back of Connor’s hand. “There’s no rush.”

Connor nods, turning his body more towards Hank. “Did you have any other questions?” he asks.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Would it -” he takes a deep breath. “Would it be inappropriate to ask if I may kiss you?”

Hank stares at him in surprise for a second before he’s rolling his eyes. “Fucking androids,” he mutters affectionately. His free hand slips round the back of Connor’s neck and he pulls him in.

Connor has never been kissed before, but he thinks that this is going to be the best kiss of his life. Hank’s lips are soft and warm against his own, a gentle pressure that is not demanding but more coaxing, guiding. Connor leans wholly in to it, eyes slipping closed while he categorises everything about this moment. He reaches one hand up to run his fingers through Hank’s beard, his other hand still maintain that low-level link between them. He can feel Hank’s fondness for him, his happiness and desire for Connor and Connor replies in kind.

Hank breaks away with a gasp, eyes half lidded as he looks down at their hands. “I felt that,” Hank says, voice full of wonder.

Connor is already leaning back in, crowding in to Hank’s space. “I know,” he mumbles before slotting their lips together again. He wants to be even closer, and Hank must pick up on it because before Connor knows it he’s being tugged up and pulled on to Hank’s lap.

“Okay?” Hank asks once he’s settled, straddling Hank’s thighs. He’s got his hands on Connor’s waist and while he laments the loss of the link, the warm points of contact from Hank’s fingers more than make up for it.

“Okay,” Connor agrees. He steadies himself with a hand on Hank’s chest as he recaptures his lips, tilting his head slightly to deepen the contact. Hank hums beneath him, the vibrations sending pleasant tingles up Connor’s arm and he settles himself more comfortably in Hank’s lap.

They pass a minute like this, everything soft and quiet and gentle between and Connor would have been content to remain like that; but then Hank nips at Connor’s bottom lip and he feels a shudder run through him and the feedback shooting across his artificial nerve endings.

Hank breaks away, panting slightly. “That a good thing?” he asks, lips brushing against Connor’s.

Connor nods. “Do it again?” he asks and Hank smiles and then he’s leaning in again, biting at Connor’s lip and this time Connor exhales shakily when Hank’s tongue flicks out to soothe the hurt. He moves then, starting to press kisses along Connor’s jawline, down his neck. He twists his fingers in the fabric of Hank’s hoodie, fighting against the urge to roll his hips against Hank’s. “H-Hank?”

“Mmhm?”

“Do you want…” he breaks off with a gasp as Hank noses the collar of his shirt out of the way to press his teeth at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. “Should we move? To the bed?”

Hank’s hand flex against his waist, and the man exhales heavily against his skin. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” But he doesn’t remove his hands and Connor waits a for a few seconds, but the man doesn’t give any indication that he’s going to move any time soon.

Connor shifts on Hank’s lap, accidentally (or, at least, he thinks it was accidental) pressing his crotch against Hank’s. He feels the man tense under him. “Hank? Are you – _oh!_ ” Connor grapples for Hank’s shoulders as he’s suddenly being lifted up, Hank’s hands having slipping under his thighs before he stands from the couch with a speed that he has never known the Lieutenant to possess. Connor wraps his legs round Hank’s hips for purchase, wraps his arms around Hank’s neck, laughing breathlessly. “You seem eager,” he says teasingly, while Hank walks them over to the bed. Hank chuckles in to his ear.

“I’ve got good reason,” he replies, hands squeezing Connor’s thighs. He reaches the bed and lays Connor down gently, but the android doesn’t feel like putting much space between them and keeps his legs locked around Hank’s lower back. Hank concedes and leans over him, pressing Connor in to the duvet. He has enough room to lean his head back to look Connor in the eyes. “You sure about this?” he asks, as if Connor has been thinking about this moment since the day he met this man. Hank’s hand teases with the edge of Connor’s pants, thumb rubbing his skin where Connor’s shirt has glided up slightly. “You can back out, change your mind. I wouldn’t blame ya.”

“I’m certain,” Connor says. He lets every ounce of self-assuredness he has leak in to his voice. “I want you, Hank. No one else: just you, exactly as you are.”

Hank watches him carefully. His thumb traces smooth circles across Connor’s skin, making him squirm beneath him. “Yeah. Same to you, too.”

Connor smiles up at him and tugs Hank down for a kiss just as Hank slips his hand beneath his waistband.

*~*

The snow starts to fall again in the early evening. Hank and Connor are lying tangled together in the bed and watch the flurries pile up even higher on the windowsill. “We didn’t close the curtains,” Connor says in to the quiet. “Anyone could have seen us.”

Hank huffs, turning to nuzzle his face against Connor’s hair. “’M pretty sure I’m the only one out here,” he says sleepily. They’d dozed together, after, and while Hank had argued for sleeping a bit longer, Connor had pointed out that they’d need to care for Sumo shortly, who would no doubt be waking up for his evening meal any minute now. As it is, the dog is currently snoring from where he’s taken up residence on the couch.

“Still, we should have made some attempt at privacy.”

“Who cares if someone saw? I just hope they enjoyed the show.”

“ _Hank_.” Hank chuckles and pulls Connor closer against him, his body one long line of heat against Connor’s.  “Relax,” Hank says. “We’d have heard them walking in the snow.”

Connor sighs but concedes the point, settling comfortably almost on top of Hank. It’s tranquil for a few minutes, just them trading soft touches while Sumo snores quietly in the corner, until an alert flashes in his HUD. It’s a read receipt from the email that he’d sent Fowler earlier: it’s strange to think that was only from this morning. It feels like an age has passed since then. He dismisses the alert but then a new one fills his view:

_Incoming call from Capt. Jeffrey Fowler. Accept, Y/N?_

“I’m getting a call from Captain Fowler,” Connor tells Hank, his LED circling blue. Hank sighs heavily.

“Well, better do this shit show sooner rather than later,” he says. “Go on, answer it.”

“Are you sure, Hank?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, do it.”

Connor presses a kiss to his cheek and accepts the call. “Good morning, Captain. Are you well?”

_“Don’t give me that,”_ Fowler states. _“Is Hank there? Is he with you?”_

“He is,” Connor says, looking up at Hank. Hank stares back with a tense smile.

_“Let me speak to him.”_

Connor mutes his audio in the conversation and tells Hank, “He wants to talk with you.”

“’Course he does,” Hank says, trying to look annoyed but Connor can see the tell-tale signs of anxiety on him. He expects Hank to deny the request, Connor wouldn’t question it – he would hang up on Fowler if Hank asked it of him - but Hank surprises him by saying: “Go on then. Let me have it.”

“Switching to external audio,” Connor says to both Hank and Fowler.

_“Is he there? Can he hear me?”_

Hank swallows nervously and Connor is ready to cut the connection if necessary. Hank takes a deep breath, and says, “H-hey, Jeff.”

There’s a beat of silence.

_“You motherfucker!”_ Fowler shouts, voice tinny over the loudspeaker. _“Hank, you son of a bitch, I should have your_ head _for this!”_

“Yeah. Good to hear you too, buddy,” Hank says, voice strained.

_“Don’t you ‘buddy’ me! Do you know how much drama you’ve caused? Do you know how worried I’ve been? How worried we’ve_ all _been? Jesus, Hank!”_

“In my defence, I made a snap decision under a shitload of emotional strain.”

Fowler makes a noise of frustration. _“I thought you were dead, you asshole.”_ He’s speaking at a normal level now, but he still sounds tense. _“You’re in so much shit when you get back here. Your disciplinary folder is going to need its own space in the dictionary under ‘fucking bullshit that I have to deal with’. That’s if I don’t wring your neck the_ second _I see you.”_

Hank blinks in surprise, glancing at Connor. “You still want me back?” he asks. He sounds hesitant, but hopeful.

Fowler takes a deep breath. _“Hank,”_ he states, _“if you don’t get back here in the next two weeks, I will come over there and drag your sorry ass back myself.”_

“I…” Hank’s eyes are suddenly bright with unshed tears. Connor takes one of his hands, winding their fingers together. Hank tries to compose himself by his voice is watery anyway when he speaks. “Yeah. I’ll – I’ll be there. Jeffrey, I…”

The captain must catch on to the change in tone. _“Just get here, Hank,”_ he continues, softer than before. _“We’ve got a lot to talk about and I swear we will talk. But please: come home.”_

“You got it,” Hank promises. He uses his free hand to rub at his eyes.

_“You get him home safely Connor, you hear me?”_

“Affirmative, Captain,” Connor switches the audio back to internal again. “I will keep you updated.” Fowler ends the call, and Connor focuses back on Hank, who is pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Connor gently pushes some wayward strands of hair back from Hank’s forehead, smiling fondly when the man open his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“…No,” Hank says honestly, “but I gotta face the music sooner or later.”

Connor wriggles up until he can press his forehead against Hank’s. “I’ll be with you,” he swears, planting a sweet kiss to the corner of Hank’s mouth, “every step of the way.” Hank trembles against him, arms wrapping tight around Connor’s body and holding him close. “You won’t have to be alone in this.”

Hank nods, and Connor doesn’t mention the dampness he can feel against his neck. “…Not being alone sounds good,” he admits quietly. Connor isn’t sure if that was for his benefit or Hank’s, so he stays quiet, letting the snow build up in the world around them.

*~*

**_June 29 th 2039, 10:14AM_ **

**_Charlotte, North Carolina_ **

There’s a run-down little diner across the road from an even worse-for-wear motel, and Hank had to bribe the waiter to let him bring Sumo inside and has been paying extortionate amounts for barely passable coffee for the last two hours. He’s sitting at the window, but the glass is so filthy that it’s almost a struggle to see out. Sumo is laying at his feet, head propped up on the low-lying sill and watching the cars go past with barely more than a _whuff_ of interest.

He isn’t kept waiting for long, though. About 20 minutes later a car pulls in to the motel parking lot, parks perfectly in the space outside the concierge office. Hank watches, heart constricting in his chest when Connor steps out of the vehicle.

He doesn’t look any different – fuck, why would he? – and he scans his gaze around the car park, taking everything in. His eyes glance across the diner and Hank is caught between panic and anticipation, but Connor turns away and heads to the motel’s front desk.

Sumo, who had perked up at the sight of Connor across the road, whines in distress and shuffles nervously. Hank reaches down and consoles him with a scratch behind the ears. “I know, old boy,” he soothes, “I know. But not yet, okay? I just… I need a bit more time. But soon, alright? We’ll go back soon.”

He doesn’t know if he’s saying the words more for him or for his dog, but they both watch as Connor reappears and heads straight towards the room that until early that morning they had been staying in. He waits until the door is closed behind Connor, and grabs Sumo’s leash with a sigh.

“C’mon. We gotta put some space between us.”

They make their exit through the back door that connects to the staff parking lot where he’d persuaded the same waiter to let him park there.

He’s not ready to go back yet and confront it all just yet, and can’t bear the thought of Connor’s sad eyes turning on him again. But someday he’ll be ready. And on that day, he’ll let Connor find them.

Not this week, and maybe not even next week. But soon.

He’ll be ready soon.                  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated. Keep it deviant, ya'll!


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